


third rate romance

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Drinking, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Open ended, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 18:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20457326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: After Nancy leaves, Bill calls Holden.





	third rate romance

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this like, two days after binging season two and finally roped my beta Hannah into watching all of it so she could beta this w/o being spoiled for season two hahahahaha. this is pretty predictable but I HAD to write it. 
> 
> enjoy!

Holden isn’t sleeping when his phone rings. He rolls out of bed and pads into his living room. He stares at the phone for a moment, weighing whether or not he wants to answer—he still feels raw, angry from the closure of the Atlanta investigations—when it stops ringing. He doesn’t go back to bed, and sure enough the phone starts ringing again moments later. He strides over to the phone and picks it up on the third ring.

_“She left.”_

Holden had opened his mouth to greet whoever’s on the other line but instead he asks, “Who left?”

Bill sighs on the other end. _“Nancy. She took Brian. She took everything.”_

Holden’s breathing catches in his chest. “Christ, Bill.” 

Bill doesn’t say anything. The line fills with his heavy breathy—wet, like he’s been crying, or maybe like he’s been drinking. 

“I’m coming over,” Holden says.

Bill hangs up. 

Holden is haphazardly dressed in clothes entirely unfitting for the current November weather, standing on Bill’s doorstep, knocking insistently to no answer. He shifts uneasily from foot to foot and finally tries the doorknob. It’s unlocked and the door swings open into an empty foyer space. He steps inside and toes off his shoes in the doorway, even though he’s sure it hardly matters. 

“Bill?” He calls out.

He shuts the door behind him and it plunges the hallway around him into mostly darkness; the only light coming in is from the streetlamps outside and it casts an amber glow on the pastel-colored walls. He looks around but doesn’t immediately see anything—nothing at all, truly. Not Bill, but not furniture, either. No family photos or any signs of life within a home that, on the rare occasion Holden has been by, was previously teeming with it. 

“Bill?” He shouts again. 

“In here,” comes a grunt from Holden’s right. He follows the sound and his footsteps leave soft dull thuds on the carpet. He ignores his own shadows cast on the wall until he steps into the living room, though the space hardly resembles what it looked like last time. No rug in the center of the room, no coffee table on top; no photos on the wall and, a quick glance to his left tells him the dining room table is gone.

This glance also tells him Bill is sat on the lumpy green couch, the only thing left in the space, cradling a mostly empty bottle of cheap whiskey in his hands. 

“Bill,” Holden murmurs. He leans in closer but hesitates to reach for the other man. “What happened?”

“She fucking left, Holden.” Bill scowls as he takes another swig of the bottle. “She took Brian and left.” 

Holden finally comes around to the empty side of the couch and sits beside Bill. “...Do you know why?” He eventually dares to ask, after several long minutes of silence. 

Bill gives a bitter laugh. “She wanted to move, because...because of Brian.”

“And the boys,” Holden adds.

Bill simply nods. “Things haven’t been going well at school for Brian since it happened, and she wanted to move because of it, and I said we’d discuss it. That it would take time.” 

Holden bites his tongue on a snippy remark. _Clearly it didn’t take that much time_, he thinks with a cursory look around the room. “I’m sorry,” he says instead. 

Bill shrugs beside him and drains half of what’s left in the bottle. Holden eyes what little remains and holds out his hand; to his surprise, Bill passes the bottle over without a remark. 

Holden, against his better judgement, takes a sip of the whiskey. It’s lukewarm. The purely ethanol taste just confirms Holden’s guess at cost. Even so, he takes another two hefty swallows before letting the bottle hang limp in his hand. 

Bill isn’t speaking so Holden does. “They’ve closed the Atlanta investigations.” 

“God,” Bill grunts. He’s scrubbing a hand over his face, sighing. “Those kids…”

Holden nods and allows himself another sip. He winces at the burn and when he opens his watering eyes, he finds Bill smirking at him. “You got anything else?”

“Nothing your refined tastes would probably enjoy,” Bill replies, reaching out to pluck the bottle from Holden. For a moment, Bill’s hand brushes Holden’s fingers, and then the warm neck of the bottle is back in Bill’s grasp. “But I do have another bottle of this swill in the kitchen.”

“Do you at least have some ice cubes?”

Bill shrugs again. “For all I know, Nancy took those too.”

Holden doesn’t quite swallow his laugh but Bill doesn’t berate him for it. He only nods toward the kitchen and knocks back the sip and a half left in the bottle. Holden rises from the couch, the familiar feeling of alcohol burning in his empty stomach making his steps shaky. He manages to make it to the kitchen, fill two cups with ice—after searching the barren cupboards for a few minutes—and tucks the second bottle of whiskey under one arm. 

He passes the bottle to Bill and watches the other man twist the cap of the whiskey, forearm flexing. Bill grunts and Holden obediently holds out the two glasses while Bill fills them to the brim. He sets the now three-quarters full bottle on the floor between his legs and takes one glass from Holden. 

“You gonna sit?” Bill asks before taking a long sip. 

Holden returns to his seat on the couch, perhaps an inch or two closer to Bill than before. 

Holden is drunk, but Bill is worse. Bill finally shucked his tie and his overshirt, while Holden’s concession to undressing is balling up his socks and leaving them on the floor. 

He’s considering stripping off his own light jacket when Bill stands abruptly. “Bill?”

“Finish your drink,” Bill commands.

Holden obeys. Bill takes the cup from him and sets it beside his own—that is, on the carpet beside the two empty whiskey bottles. Bill makes a gesture but when Holden doesn’t get it, Bill hooks his hand around Holden’s elbow and hauls him up.

For a moment, they both just stand there, staring at one another. Bill’s grip flexes and tightens around Holden’s arm before letting go.

“C’mon,” Bill says.

For a crazed moment, as Bill takes off down the hallway, Holden thinks they might be _leaving_, obnoxiously dressed and drunk as they are. But Bill bypasses the front door to continue down the hallway. He stops in a doorway and looks back at Holden. 

“C’mon.” he says again, and Holden nearly trips over himself to catch up. 

When he’s behind Bill, he peers around the other man to see the room they’re lingering in the door for. It’s clearly the master bedroom, spacious but sparsely decorated as the rest of the house. In the middle of the room is the only furniture: a wooden bedframe and a bed with no sheets. 

Bill walks into the room and Holden follows. 

“What’s going on?” Holden asks, words heavy and slurred on his tongue. He looks around to see the only other things in the room are Bill’s clothes hung neatly in one half of the closet; the other half is empty. He starts to glance over his shoulder but a clammy hand grabs his elbow again and yanks him closer. Suddenly, he’s face-to-face with Bill, who’s staring at him with wide, dilated eyes. 

“Bill,” Holden says, just before Bill’s kissing him, hot and wet and messy. 

Holden squeaks into the kiss but opens his mouth when Bill’s tongue glides along the seam of his lips. Bill’s other hand comes up and tenderly cups the back of Holden’s head and Holden sways closer. He rests one hand on Bill’s chest and feels the other man’s heart thudding heavily under his palm.

The kiss breaks and before Holden can speak, he’s being pushed toward the bed. He goes, lets Bill strip him of as much of his clothing as possible in the short few steps to the bare mattress. Holden goes down and bounces, springs squeaking under his weight; he wrestles out of the rest of his clothes—his twill pants and his boxers—while Bill undresses. 

Then Bill is suddenly on the bed with him, in between his thighs, staring down at him in near total darkness. Only the moonlight from the window illuminates them, and it throws shadows of blue and white on Bill’s face.

Holden swallows. “What are we doing?” He asks in a rasping whisper. His hands have somehow found their way to Bill’s shoulders and he pets along the skin there; it’s damp with sweat and hot with a flush. He brings one hand to Bill’s cheek and strokes the day-old stubble there. 

“Shush,” Bill says. 

He climbs off the bed and for one heart-stopping moment, Holden thinks he’s ruined things by opening his mouth. He thinks Bill will start to redress before throwing Holden out. He watches, stricken, as Bill slips into the attached bathroom. It feels like Bill is out of sight for an achingly long time; _eons_, even. Holden doesn’t breathe until Bill is approaching the bed once more, and then the lack of oxygen makes him dizzy.

He’s still trying to sort out his thoughts and catch his breath when he realizes what’s in Bill’s hand.

Lubricant.

“Bill,” Holden says, stops, squirms. He spreads his legs wider but his hands twitch uneasily at his sides. 

“It’ll be fine.” Bill flicks open the cap. “You’ll be fine.”

Holden swallows his nerves. He lays back and watches as Bill slicks up two fingers until excess lube dribbles down his hand to his wrist. Holden’s mouth is dry and his stomach is churning and his cock is hard—something he’s only just now realizing, too caught up in everything else to even realize how aroused he was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and watches as Bill’s hands lowers between his thighs. The first press of a thick fingertip at his asshole isn’t as foreign as it could be—Holden’s been curious, Debbie was adventurous, he’s not exactly a virgin in this regard. But it’s never been Bill’s fingers inside him and the thought has his breathing hitching. He stops breathing completely when Bill’s finger finally breaches him up to the second knuckle.

“Fuck! Bill!” Holden throws his head back as pain throbs in his rim and up his spine. It’s faint but it’s there, and it only increases as Bill’s finger slips further inside. Holden draws his knees together and digs them into Bill’s sides as he tries to breathe through the pain. “God, shit.”

“Sorry,” Bill grunts. His other, clean hand is tight on Holden’s hip. 

“Don’t, don’t apologize.” Holden slaps one hand on Bill’s shoulder and wraps the other around the headboard. “Another, c’mon.”

“You’re still so tight.”

“C’mon, do it.” Holden hitches one leg higher on Bill’s hip and pushes him closer. “I can take it.” 

Bill pins him with a stare, something unreadable in the low moonlight, but after a few more minutes of working one finger inside Holden, he adds a second. 

Holden hiccups on a moan as the two fingers split him open; he arches his back and rakes his nails along Bill’s shoulder. It burns and it hurts but it’s _Bill_ inside him and Holden whimpers. 

“Christ,” Bill mutters and moves his fingers faster. He curls them and presses in deeper and Holden can’t help but cry out. He clenches around Bill’s fingers and smiles at Bill’s next muttered swear. 

The fog of alcohol has faded for Holden and everything feels almost _too_ clear. Bill’s skin is hot where Holden is pressed close to him, and his fingers are thick and deep, and Holden’s cock is hard and leaking. He tosses his head from side to side as the pleasure crests in waves until finally he’s begging, “Please, please, Bill, c’mon.” 

“Roll over,” Bill commands, and Holden obeys without hesitation. He has to let go of Bill and the headboard but immediately after his nipples brush the rough material of the bare mattress, Bill is sliding closer, his fat cock brushing over Holden’s hole. 

“Yes, Bill, yes, _please_.”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Bill murmurs. He presses one hand to the small of Holden’s sweat-slicked back and the other, presumably, guides his dick to Holden’s hole. There’s a moment’s resistance before the head of his cock pops past the ring of muscle. 

Holden gasps, lets out something almost like a shriek, and then Bill is sliding home, deeper and deeper until his balls slap against Holden’s. Holden flings one hand out to press against the headboard and hold himself steady as Bill pulls out and starts to thrust. Each press forward forces a hiccupping moan from Holden’s lips and Bill’s bruising grip on his hip burns like a brand.

“Fuck,” Bill groans. His hand on Holden’s back is slipping as the sweat increases until it slides up along the knobs of his spine and Bill’s fingers tangle in his hair. Unlike the earlier, gentle way Bill cupped his head, this time Bill’s grip tightens in Holden’s hair and tugs. 

“Ah!” Holden shouts, too loud to stop himself. It happens again, and again, and again, every time Bill pounds into him and yanks at his hair and bruises his hip. “Bill, Bill, _Bill_—?”

Bill tugs on his hair again at the same moment he falls forward, shoving his cock deeper into Holden at the same time he bites the ball of his shoulder digging his teeth into the soft flesh. Holden’s cry lodges in his throat as he’s left breathless by the pain and pleasure combining, the burn and stretch and sharp sting of teeth leaving their mark on his skin. 

Bill loosens his grip and tongues over the indents left by his teeth and Holden just can’t take it anymore; he slips a hand beneath him and curls it around his cock. He’s leaking, precome dripping from the head, and he uses that to slick the way. He almost stops, because it feels _too good_ and he’s going to come _too quick_ but he just can’t stop himself.

“Yeah,” Bill groans, right in his ear. “C’mon, Holden, do it.” His hand on Holden’s hip drifts down to cover Holden’s hand, and together they stroke, quick and ruthless as the way Bill thrusts. “Fuck,” Bill grunts again before biting down once more. 

The razor’s edge of pain shocking Holden’s system a second time is enough to tip him over the edge and he comes, cock pulsing, as his spills over his and Bill’s fingers. He gasps as their hands on his dick verge on oversensitivity but before he can complain, Bill is grunting in his ear, nipping at his neck, and coming wet and deep inside him. 

“Fuck,” Holden breathes as his eyes flutter. This feeling, of come inside him, of Bill’s cock softening, is new. He relishes it while he can.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Bill leans back and finally his cock slips from Holden’s body. Holden doesn’t move except to relax into the bed, cradling his come-sticky hand to his chest so he doesn’t get it everywhere. 

Bill climbs off the bed and returns to the bathroom. There’s the sound of a drawer opening, a thud, and the drawer closing. Then, a soft swish and the faucet running. Holden rests his chin in his hand and watches as Bill comes back and, without meeting Holden’s gaze, starts to wipe him clean of lube and come. Holden extends his hand and Bill cleans that too, still without looking him in the eyes, but gets between his fingers to clean off all the come. 

Bill leaves once more to dispose of the soiled washcloth and when he returns, Holden is sitting upright, eyeing his clothes strewn around the room. It makes the painfully empty space look marginally less void. A touch livelier. 

Bill leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest. _He looks handsome_, Holden thinks while he swallows a giddy laugh. It’s dull, but he’s still a little drunk. He grins at Bill and leans back on his hands. He drags his foot across the carpet, close to where his twill pants sit crumpled but not quite. 

“I’ve called you a cab,” Bill says. 

Holden doesn’t look at him quick enough for whiplash, but it’s a near thing. Bill is no longer looking at him, instead looking out the window across the room. 

“Should be here in twenty, maybe thirty minutes.” Bill walks to his closet and drags out pajamas and steps into them, buttons his shirt, tugs at it until it lays right. It’s strange to see him so well put-together while Holden feels...fractured. Not in a bad way but—_I’ve called you a cab_—not in a good way either.

“Alright,” Holden manages to say. He rises off the bed and ignores the way his legs shake. He steps into his boxers and pants; he drags on his undershirt and looks around for a moment before remembering the light jacket he wore is probably in the hallway. His socks are in the living room. His shoes are by the front door. 

He hesitates at the bedroom door. He thinks he should say something, but he doesn’t know what. He turns to leave, but then turns back, and Bill beats him to speaking yet again—

“Jesus Christ.”

Bill stalks forward and for a split second, Holden thinks he’s about to get punched, except for the second time that evening, Bill is hauling him in by the collar and planting a messy kiss on him. Holden stiffens for a moment before relaxing, melting into it again. He moans as Bill’s tongue slides against his own. Bill takes what he wants from the kiss and when it ends, Bill takes a step back.

“Go home, Holden.” Bill doesn’t quite smile at him but the expression he does give makes Holden’s insides twist, pleasantly and not. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Holden hesitates, then, “Monday.” He nods. “See you.” 

He collects his jacket from the hallway, his socks from the living room, and his shoes from the door. Then he lets himself out and makes sure to flick the lock behind him. He stands on Bill’s doorstep, facing the road this time instead of the door, and thinks he can still feel the traces of Bill and his cock and his come inside him. 

Despite it all, he steps off the porch with a smile on his face, headed toward the curb to wait for the cab. 


End file.
